Finding Her Way
by Peckish Piger
Summary: Foyle's War: Set around the episode Trespass (S08E02). Faced with the possible reality of no longer working with Foyle, Sam tries to find her way to what it is she truly wants. Sam/Foyle
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** _Finding Her Way  
_**Characters: **Christopher Foyle and Samantha Wainwright

**Summary:** Faced with the possible reality of no longer working with Foyle, Sam tries to find her way to what it is she truly wants.

**A/N: ** This story takes place around the episode _Trespass_ from the most recent series. We've taken _some_ liberties with canon. A HUGE thank you to dancesabove for her beta work and suggestions. Any mistakes, therefore, are our own.

Reviews or comments are always greatly appreciated.

**Disclaimer: **All characters from _Foyle's War_ belong to Anthony Horowitz. No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

**Part 1**

A solid clunk sounded from the machine in front of her, and she clicked her tongue in annoyance. Not again. What _was_ it about typewriters? They all seemed to have it in for her. Across the small outer office a red-headed woman looked up, saying with mingled sympathy and exasperation, "Jammed again?"

"Seems so." Samantha Wainwright sighed, standing over the machine to see where it had gone wrong. Perhaps she should go in for typewriter repair instead… she seemed to have encountered every potential problem for this machine, at least. Sam was soon back to typing, her eyes feeling a bit weary after so many files and reports. It had to be done, however, and as it was for _him_ she didn't really mind.

Half an hour later Sam's office companion put her work away, gathered her things, and called a cheerful, "'Night, Sam," over her shoulder, leaving Sam to battle with the machine on her own. Sam made a face at the woman's retreating back, feeling belittled by the idea a machine might outwit her.

She stood and carefully put the recently typed files together, then went through the door behind her into Christopher Foyle's office. They were no longer driver and detective now, but secretary and senior intelligence agent. It had been a natural shift in some ways, and they worked together easily after spending five years of the war together, day in and day out, doing their best to keep Hastings and the South Coast trouble-free. Now they worked with another sort of trouble; but, paperwork was paperwork. Foyle's spartan office was quiet, and she guessed he was still in his meeting. Putting the files away carefully in the tray on his desk, she turned back to the typewriter to finish the last few reports before calling it a day.

Her stomach rumbled and she hoped the ruddy machine would behave. She left the door between the offices open and sat down to work again, looking up only when Foyle returned, some ten minutes later.

"Still here?" He glanced at her through the door between the adjoining offices.

"Typewriter is being a nuisance."

Foyle gave a small chuckle. "Well, don't be too late. Files can wait."

Going to sit behind his desk, Foyle pulled his diary towards him, rifling through a few pages. Sam turned back to the machine in front of her, glaring at it and willing it not to jam.

She was soon distracted by a heavy sigh from Foyle in the office behind her. She knew that sound; after years of working together, how could she not? But this sigh was different from his others; it was not a huff of annoyance, nor a weary sigh. It was something altogether different… _wistful,_ almost. It made her pause, and when he sighed again, she leaned back in her chair, craning her head back to look around the door frame.

Foyle sat with one finger on his top lip, gazing down at the diary in front of him, his other hand tapping a page absently. Clearly he was lost in thought, one eyebrow arched ruefully.

Feeling taken aback, Sam asked softly, "All right, sir?"

He looked up in surprise, blinking. "Er, yes. Yes, thanks, Sam."

She nodded at him, giving him a swift smile before returning to her work. It wasn't long before she heard him begin to pace, and one corner of her mouth curled up in amusement. So, he was definitely thinking about _something,_ then. She wondered if he realised how easily she was able to read his quirks.

Putting the finishing touch on the last report, Sam stood gratefully, resisting the urge to give the machine a gloating look, and went into Foyle's office to hand over the pages.

"Finished, then?" he asked from where he stood on the far side of the room. He'd been reading a file as he walked back and forth.

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Time you were off home."

As Sam approached his desk, her eye caught her own name. With a quick glance behind her to see if Foyle still was pacing with his back to her, she leaned in more closely to read what was there.

In the diary, which had been left open on the previous week's pages, she saw "13:00: Meeting with Valentine — Global Oil." In pencil, scrawled in his looped handwriting beside this entry, was "Sam safe."

Her eyes widened and she quickly placed the pages down on his desk, moving away before he noticed her. While she didn't see it as snooping, he might perhaps think otherwise. Foyle hadn't seemed to notice, however, as he was still moving in a regular rhythm on the other side of the room, staring down at the file in his hands in irritation.

"Um, I'll say goodnight, then, sir."

He looked up, giving her a quick smile, lips turning downwards softly. "Goodnight, Sam."

She paused, half wanting to say something, but then decided against it. She crossed the threshold of their two offices and left him to his musings. Gathering up her things, she left, glancing back once at the top of the stairs, puzzled and unsure.

It was well after seven-thirty by the time Sam arrived home, but the house she shared with her husband Adam Wainwright, was cold and dark. Her mind still busy processing what she had left behind her in the office, she didn't notice the dreariness of the kitchen, nor did she put much thought towards the fact that there was nothing for tea. Instead she sat down with a relieved thump in a chair, leaning her elbows wearily on the kitchen table.

Last week had been awful, to put it mildly. Adam had been a complete BF, in her opinion, getting mixed up with a constituent, and her resultant reckless volunteering for undercover work had very nearly been deadly. Though it wasn't the first time she had been on the wrong end of a gun, she didn't particularly relish the experience. This time had been far too close; if it hadn't been for Mr Valentine…

She had expected a ticking-off from Foyle after he had met with Valentine last week for a report of events about Global Oil and the Del Mars, but her boss hadn't even mentioned it. The diary entry, however, made it quite clear that he was aware of what had happened. So why hadn't he said something?

Then again, perhaps he hadn't found it necessary to be cross with her; she'd had enough of a fright as it was, and it was possible he was letting her stew for a while. He might be waiting for _her_ to say something. Suppose she was meant to apologise, and hadn't done so? A shiver of mortification went through her before she remembered how attentive he had been recently—quick to ask if things were all right, and tending to hover nearby inconspicuously. Sam suddenly felt very tired. Foyle was a mystery, and that was that.

Pulling herself from her thoughts, she looked around miserably at the drab kitchen, feeling both hungry and isolated. The self-pitying thought, "I wish someone would bring _me_ a cup of tea for once," crossed her mind as she rose to search the cupboard for something to eat. It was hard to fit in the housekeeping as well as her job, and she often felt there was hardly any point, as Adam was in and out without much notice. It wasn't really his fault—his job was difficult at times, and he was ever so keen to do it well. Sam sighed. She wanted to do her job well too, but she felt little support for her endeavour. Adam saw it as a waste of time; the other office girls were clearly more competent than she was; and the senior agents like Valentine and Foyle would only ever see her as a scrap of a girl inclined to get herself into trouble.

Standing by the sink, Sam leaned against it heavily and tried not to cry. She knew the impossible feeling came from a trying day and the unwelcoming return home, but it was hard to shake, and the tears came without warning. Feeling suddenly impatient with herself, she filled the tea kettle and bashed it down on the stove with force, then banged a saucepan beside it, relishing the jarring sound and feeling satisfaction in the release of tension. For the next five minutes, as she prepared her lonely supper, she slammed cupboard doors, slapped a bowl and glass down on the table, and generally attacked her kitchen. Perhaps after this she would break out the hoover and give a thorough going over to the hideous carpet Adam had insisted would look lovely in the sitting room...

Long after the news on the wireless had finished, the small terraced house was surprisingly tidy, the frustrations Sam felt having melted away through her vigorous activity. Now she sat curled in bed, feet a bit frozen and book open on her middle, her mind far away. Late though it was, Sam had completely forgotten to keep an ear out for Adam. Instead she was thinking of Foyle, still puzzling about him.

She never could be quite sure what to make of him. Sometimes she felt in awe of him, finding his ability to outwit others both overwhelming and thrilling. She admired him in many ways, finding his uncomplicated morals and steadfast demeanour reassuring. He had such a presence at times—commanding respect and attention by merely walking into a room—while at other times he was reflective and reticent. Some were misled by the inability to recognise the quiet strength radiating from him.

It was an attractive quality, she had to admit; many times she had been pulled in by this strength, drawn by the look in his eyes as he surveyed her. It made her feel safe, and when the glance lingered longer than was perhaps seemly, it allowed her to feel feminine and graceful. It was as if he alone saw beyond the uniform she had worn during the war, or the ill-fitting frocks she now owned, and saw instead a woman who had stood by him loyally and who deserved a say in things.

Most importantly, she felt completely at ease in his company. Years of working together had smoothed the path for their talking openly and honestly about many things. It occurred to her that Foyle probably knew her better than anyone, including Adam. He had a way of reading her that left little room for secrecy, which was precisely why she trusted him completely. While he might not tell her all that he was thinking, he had never shut her out, and had always listened to anything she might have to say. He was good that way; years as a policeman standing him in good stead as he listened to her musings, not afraid to question her opinions and allow her to reason with him.

She missed these talks with him. While they still conversed in the car as they drove around London, it was harder at the office, as one could never be sure if the walls had ears. Why the others seemed to doubt Foyle, she didn't know, as he had already been an asset to the service many times over. Equally, Sam couldn't quite understand why he hadn't packed it in and gone home to Hastings; _she_ certainly wouldn't stay in a place where she wasn't wanted, with people whispering behind her back.

With a sudden jolt, Sam felt an unpleasant realisation slip through her. Perhaps she _wasn't_ wanted. Where was Adam, and why hadn't he rung her up? Why wasn't he here now, in bed beside her, warming her feet as he usually did, or reaching for her in his still shy and tentative way, half apologetic that he wanted her?

Then, just as quickly as the doubt had overcome her, she remembered Adam's parting call that morning as he'd gone out the door. _Of course_; he and Mr Harris had gone to a meeting with Charles Lucas, that man who wanted to hold some awful event to speak against immigrants. No doubt they had much to discuss.

A wave of relief claimed her, and she put her book on the bedside table before switching off the light and pulling up the coverlet to her chin to snuggle down comfortably. She wasn't thinking clearly today. Emotions running high because of the possible pregnancy, perhaps; or overtired from work. A bit confused by the men in her life, too, it seemed. No matter; a good night's sleep would see to it, and tomorrow would be better, with news from the doctor and time to reflect.

Though Sam fell asleep quickly, her dreams were fretful, filled with men chasing her with aimed pistols, and Foyle calling her name and telling her to be careful. Then all at once she found herself somewhere cold and dark, feeling a damp chill settling into her very bones. It looked a bit like the basement of the Del Mars' house, where she had hidden only last week from a gun-wielding ape of a man who wouldn't have thought twice about shooting her. Somewhere a pipe dripped steadily, the sound catching at her nerves and making her shiver. A shape loomed up out of the darkness unexpectedly beside her and she screamed, only to find herself stifled by warm lips descending onto hers.

Opening her eyes wide within the dream, she realised it was Christopher Foyle. He pulled the edges of his long overcoat around her, pressing her against him to keep her warm. The cold and dark no longer seemed to matter. She was here with him, being kissed with such tenderness; she felt a soft throb begin in her lower abdomen. A sudden desire overwhelmed her as she drank in his nearness. He had come to save her.

The increased pressure of his kiss made her groan. _Christopher!_

Sam woke with a start, feeling arms around her and hot breath against her cheek. Her eyes flew open as her heart raced, and she whispered with some feeling, "Adam?"

"Darling…" his voice was thick with desire through the darkness, and she felt him against her.

A pang of remorse went through her as she realised, in the moment Adam found the warmth of her, that his ease of entrance had very little do with his surprise midnight ministrations, and nearly_ everything_ to do with Christopher Foyle.

* * *

It had felt odd to slip out of the house early the next morning on the pretext of work, leaving Adam in the middle of his first cup of tea, only to drive in the opposite direction towards the hospital for her appointment. London was just waking up around her, it seemed, and there was a feeling of calm before the storm: before queues formed for the butcher's and baker's; before housewives began to see to their daily chores. Would she be doing the same, in a few months? Waiting dutifully on the pavement to procure rations for the week; nipping home with the basket bumping against her leg, to remind her of all the things she would never do again?

Never again to follow up leads in unsavoury parts of the city; never to battle again with unruly typewriters, nor feel a sudden thrill at fetching _Most Secret_ documents; never to hang about waiting outside with the car, letting Mr Foyle get on with his investigations; never again to work, day in and day out, with _him_...

The sudden choking feeling of such a realisation clutched at her throat, making her gasp audibly as she slowed the car. She pulled over, hands trembling, insides writhing in alarm. Adam had told her, in no uncertain terms, that she would have to give up her work soon, no doubt worried about how it must look to others: his wife working when she should be at home looking after things for him. It reflected badly on him—were they in such a position that his wife had to go to work each day?

"Tell Mr Foyle," he had urged… but she had not mentioned it. She didn't want to stop working, and unless they threw her out, she wasn't going to. And now the thought of indeed being pregnant, of having to leave as other priorities took precedence, and losing the last scrap of independence she had clung to so eagerly, left her feeling empty and cold. She wasn't ready to go, as yet. How long had she and Mr Foyle worked together?

Six years… nearly seven? It might have been a mere six months, had her father taken her home to Lyminster as he had wished to. Working with the police on a dangerous coastline, with God only knew what in store—her father had found it entirely unsuitable. By some miracle, however, for which Sam had given daily thanks, the Reverend Stewart had decided that perhaps Sam _was_ doing a useful job for the Police, and under the strict hand of DCS Foyle's constabulary, she would no doubt be safe as houses.

Sam had stayed in Hastings as Foyle's driver, and the following years, though full of hardship and apprehension due to war, had held some of the best moments of her life. She had loved it all; the independence and the chance to finally become her own woman, the sheer fun of being caught up the excitement of police work, sniffing out clues and helping Foyle's investigations. It was unthinkable to wonder what life might have been like without her time there.

The wave of realisation suddenly washed over her, chilling her to her core. Not to work with Mr Foyle every day… never to be with him and help him again, their contact perhaps reduced to paltry Christmas cards. She felt sick; the awfulness again closing in around her. Yanking the hand brake, Sam turned off the engine and stepped out, hardly able to stand the confines of the car and her own thoughts.

Last night she had dreamt of him; inappropriate and wrong though it may have been, it had been a dream. But this feeling that now threatened to crush her was _real_. She saw before her a void; a life bereft of Foyle. It frightened her, this recognition of unbefitting emotion. She wanted to be a good wife; to make a home and a family, and most of all, to be a decent person. But she had begun with the wrong man. For the man she had married drew her not at all; he might be anyone. They might make a marriage work, but a life _together_? No, indeed that would always be wanting, and deep down she knew with sudden desperation that everything hung in the balance.

It came upon her like the dawn, tendrils of light touching every corner of her being, allowing no shadow to remain. She saw herself stripped bare of all excuses and ideals, and saw only what remained: a desperate desire to be near _him_, now and always.

She burst into sudden tears, feeling drowned in her own thoughts. _What should I do? Oh, what __**can**__ I do?_

Pacing briskly to and fro on the pavement near the car, Sam wrung her hands. It had always been there; why, oh _why_ had she never realised? It was an impossible situation; with more than she alone standing to be hurt. Even he couldn't save her from such a mess this time. Nor could she possibly ask him to involve himself. A man of such upright morals, Foyle would quite firmly tell her that she would be making a mistake. He might even remove himself from the scene, much as he had done when he left for "unfinished business" in America, and that too would be unthinkable. To drive him away...

People were beginning to bustle around her, and Sam drew a deep breath to calm herself. There was no use in this line of thought; there was only one way forwards, step by step. The first thing was to see the doctor and find out what lay in store for them. Then perhaps, could she make a more practical decision.

Sliding back in behind the wheel, Sam looked in the rearview mirror, wiping her face with her handkerchief and trying to make herself look presentable. _One step at a time_, she told her reflection firmly. _You can panic later…_

_TBC..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two**

Foyle left his tiny flat earlier than usual, as he'd found the newspaper depressing and was eager for the distraction of movement. He walked briskly from the block of flats owned by the Security Services, grateful that it was dry—even if rather grey—out of doors. London always seemed to have a greyness to it these days; war was over, but the homefront battle still felt present with its rationing and shortages and nothing feeling quite the same.

In all honesty, he missed Hastings; missed the gulls and the ever-changing sea, as well as the familiarity of streets he had known all his life. The trip he had made to Germany not ten days ago had pounded home the transient nature of life in all its dire horridness. He wanted nothing more than to gather those he cared for close to him, and return to a place that was comfortingly familiar. But as it was, those he cared for were here in London; so here he would stay. Andrew was busy not too far away in the City, making a life for himself with his work... and undoubtedly a pretty girl nearby.

Foyle's mouth quirked downwards in amusement and affection. He hardly saw his son, both their lives busy and full as they were, but whenever they managed to meet, he was reassured by the healthy glow that had returned to Andrew's face and the fire that burned once more in his eyes. Andrew had been able to put the war behind him and move on with his life, and for that, Foyle was grateful. Therefore, he would see his son when chance allowed, but was happy not to insinuate himself too much.

Which brought him to the other reason he had remained in London: _Sam._

He very much wanted to insinuate himself into her life and get to the bottom of what was bothering her. She hid it well some days, while other days he could clearly read the unhappy and resigned look on her face. It was neither his place nor his right, but that didn't stop the desperate feeling of not being able to do something for her. In all the years they had worked together he had been able to keep an eye on her; to offer advice when she asked for it, or just to lend an ear. Now, however, he felt on the periphery of things, and didn't like to broach the subject of what was troubling her.

Last week, after meeting with Valentine and learning about the utter balls-up the undercover mission had been, he had very nearly stormed into the office, wanting only to grab her arm, drag her out from behind the typewriter, and have it out with her. How _dare_ she put herself thoughtlessly into such danger? How could she not realise what a foolish thing it was to do? And he hadn't even been here—he'd been in Germany, and the terrifying thought that something could have happened to her while he was away; that he might have returned only to find out she had been injured or killed… His stomach clenched at the idea, and even though he knew she was safe, a tremor of panic slipped through him. Why the devil couldn't she be more careful? She was liable to give him an ulcer if she carried on this way. Marriage to that fool of a man seemed to have turned her head completely. She had always had a knack for getting herself into trouble, but really, this was the limit.

Foyle paused in this reckless train of thought, and bit his lip._ Damn it all, Foyle, stop this…_

He sighed heavily and shook his head. He cared for her. How could he not, after so many years working together closely? But perhaps he was overstepping the mark by assuming that it was he who should keep her out of trouble. She was a grown woman, married to an MP, and quite obviously intent on following her own mind. There was only so much he could do, really. And if what he suspected indeed proved true, she wouldn't be needing him much longer. She'd gotten herself well and truly "in trouble," and it wouldn't be long before either he or Adam put a foot down and said enough was enough. He dreaded that day as much as he longed for it. She would at least be safe then.

Foyle sighed once more, patting the right pocket of his overcoat absently, feeling a bit morose and not a little disappointed in himself. He had hoped that after this much time he wouldn't be quite as susceptible. But he couldn't deny that Sam was special. She always had been…

He was startled from his musings by a bright voice calling out behind him. "Morning!"

He turned on his toes with the ease and agility of a dancer, long overcoat swirling around his ankles, knowing her voice and already feeling the sense of calm coming over him, unbidden and overwhelming as ever. His facial muscles seemed to have a mind of their own, breaking into a smile that reached his eyes as he took in the loveliness of her. It was as if he stood looking at a painting; her red coat offsetting the greyness of London, streaming towards him like a beacon of hope in a world still reeling from the aftermath of war and destruction. "Samantha in Sunlight"...

Her face lit up at the sight of his own smile, and his heartbeat quickened. Perhaps it was the influence of his thoughts during his walk, but she looked remarkable—as if some subtle change had come over her in the night and rearranged her features. The hat cocked jauntily over one eye, a pretty blue scarf tied around her neck, and eyes full of something that made his blood pound. Foyle found himself momentarily speechless.

Clearing his throat and swallowing hard, he said, "Morning. Everything all right?"

"Yes, sir." She was beside him now, having given a small skip to catch him up. "Thank you."

He shoved his right hand into his coat pocket, clenching his fist tightly over the set of keys there, letting the sharp teeth prick at his palm as he willed himself to remain calm and not give himself away through the expression on his face. He knew she could read him, too, and he mustn't let on that he was thinking how lovely she looked.

Stepping back to let her go first through the entrance to their office building, Foyle caught her eye, and their gaze lingered as she stepped past him. Unconsciously he raised his left hand to touch the small of her back as he ushered her inside. He was close on her heels, following her through the doorway, and his breath caught in surprise as she half-turned towards him, shoulder pressed against his side, and then smiled up at him. He removed his hand from her back as if he'd been scalded, bringing it up to remove his hat and slowing his pace so that he was half a step or two behind her. He swallowed hard again, as her look had gone right through him to pierce his chest. Perhaps he should have stayed a few minutes longer to finish his paper and second cup of tea this morning. He felt decidedly peculiar.

"I saw the doctor," she told him. "Everything's fine…"

They walked to the reception desk, and Sam returned the keys of the car she had borrowed. When was she planning to tell him? She must realise by now that he suspected something was up—three trips to the doctor's in as many weeks? He smoothed his hair down, waiting until she turned back to him to add, "With me, anyway."

"What does that mean?" Perhaps Adam was the one who in fact was visiting the doctor? He quashed the ill-timed hope and looked innocently and inquiringly at her.

"Well, I could afford to pay. I met this poor fellow—a tram driver, there with his son," she continued, falling into step beside him again. Their shoulders briefly brushed as she dodged a pair of men deep in conversation near the stairs. "He was only about ten or eleven years old…"

She began descending the steps and he quietly rolled his eyes, thinking in amusement how only Sam could experience some interesting occurrence in regard to _someone else_ while merely visiting a doctor. She did seem to attract these sorts of encounters, or then again, perhaps she instigated them. Either way, he happily resigned himself to listening to what would no doubt be a convoluted retelling of what had happened with this tram driver and his son.

They were interrupted by Hilda Pierce, leaning over the banister above them. "Mr Foyle!"

Foyle paused at the stop of the steps, shifting his weight to his right leg, steeling himself and groaning inwardly before looking up. Miss Pierce had a stern face at the best of times, but the look she gave him now was positively glacial. "A word, please."

_Oh dear, feigned politeness too; I really must have annoyed someone..._

"Uh oh," Sam muttered, giving him a knowing look from the steps below.

Foyle quirked his mouth as if to say, _if I don't return…_ and sighed, turning to follow Miss Pierce grudgingly, giving Sam's retreating back a wistful look.

* * *

Waiting for Foyle outside the Woolfs' house, Sam watched a man in a skull cap approach and ask if he could go in. Sir David Woolf's murder was another piece of the puzzle of this current case. But it seemed only to muddy the waters in regard to what was happening to Jewish immigrants and the question of Palestine. It was strange to be hanging about outside of crime scenes again. She had said to Foyle, as they'd pulled up twenty minutes before, "This is like the old days, sir; dead bodies, police, grand old house." Though perhaps it was a trifle insensitive, Sam had felt a thrill at being reminded of their old police days together. It was as if the years had shed themselves, placing her and Foyle right back to where they had begun.

Foyle had seemed to agree, retorting quickly, "When everything was so very much simpler."

Sam had grinned as she watched him go into the house after showing his identity card to the constable on duty. Things _had_ been simpler in Hastings, hadn't they? They'd had their work, and the war effort, and together had moved seamlessly from merely co-workers to friends. It had been cut-and-dried; each knowing what the other expected, which was no doubt why they had worked so well together. Each understood how the other thought. She knew his moods, his looks, when to keep her mouth shut and let him think, or when to offer her own ideas, in the rare hope that one might stick. It had worked beautifully, and she'd felt—as she _now_ felt—so incredibly close to him.

And the job she did with him was important to her. Adam had said to her once, in the midst of a row, that she was not a spy, no matter how hard she pretended to be. It had hurt to know that he thought her work mere pretence, fulfilling some sort of girlhood fancy. He had followed this with, "You've got to _grow up_ and start facing reality."

In a flush of anger, Sam had yelled back over her shoulder, "If this is reality, then maybe I don't want it!"

Perhaps in that moment of anger she had expressed precisely what she had been denying for too long. She didn't want this life she and Adam had found themselves in; she wanted only to return to a time when she had been happy… when she had been useful, well-thought-of, and regarded as herself, independent of another. Now, she felt, she was regarded merely as a wife dabbling in a bit of secretarial work.

Foyle had given her a look this morning: one of obvious pleasure to see her after a day apart, and had asked, in his understated way, if she were all right. It was a small thing, easily done, and yet spoke volumes. He was thoughtful and kind, and at this moment she needed a bit of kindness.

_Simpler times…_ did he, too, think about when they had been in Hastings, when times had seemed more straightforward? It was a pleasant thought, and filled her with a warm glow. Perhaps she wasn't alone in recognising that what she and Foyle had was something quite dear.

It was becoming clearer to Sam that something would soon have to be said, one way or the other. They were reaching a breaking point. Mysterious trips to the doctor; rarely making it home in time to fix her husband's dinner; lingering looks and wistful sighs… A senior intelligence agent Foyle might be, but to her, he would always be foremost a clever detective, quick to size up a situation. If he didn't know already that something was up, she would eat her hat!

Foyle was speaking now to the man in the skull cap, handing over a business card. She watched him turn away with a nod, and as he walked back to the car he caught her eye, smiling easily. He looked tired already, though the day had hardly begun. She opened her door to slide in, and he did the same. He leaned against the inside of his door, sighing. It never was easy to question the surviving family, Sam knew, even after years of experience. She felt rather sorry for him. Foyle glanced up at her, filling her stomach with flutters. What on earth was he thinking, to look so striking as he did now?

"I, er, rather think we've got a long day ahead of us…" he began, lifting one corner of his mouth in rueful grimace. "You up for it?"

"You bet I am." She beamed, giving him a short nod. She wouldn't miss this for the world!

_TBC..._


	3. Chapter 3

**Part Three**

If he felt at all overbearing about making Sam wait in the car as she'd previously been instructed, Foyle didn't show any guilt over it. For once, she should jolly well do as she was told, he thought grimly. If he couldn't keep her out of trouble when he was nearby, then what hope was left for them at all? When they had been here earlier, she had been held at gunpoint; it wasn't about to happen again on his watch. Sighing, he tried turning his mind from Sam to pick his way carefully through the now-abandoned house, minding the debris from a fallen wall. It was dank and eerie in the half-light of the late afternoon, but all was still but for the _drip, drip_ of rainwater from some dislodged eave.

Turning back from the house, Foyle called for her across the open ground. "_Sam!"_

She fairly leapt from the car in her eagerness, and he suppressed a small smile, ducking his head and returning to the entryway of the house.

"Anything, sir?"

"No. Let's have a look around."

Hesitating near the centre of the house, where a set of unsteady stairs wound upwards, Foyle said quietly, "Best not…" and instead led the way down a flight of stone steps to the room where they had spoken with Mr Davey previously that day. Here, too, it was full of shadows, the only light filtering in from a grubby window on the far side. Foyle squinted in the gloom, trying to make out anything of interest. Mr Davey, it seemed, had left in a hurry. Ashes in the grate stirred by their passing made him pause, and he knelt down, poking carefully through the remnants there.

The smell that rose up from the grate was not merely of wood or paper, but something more chemical. _Photographs._ Foyle reached in further, pulling out a half-burnt photograph, shaking the ash from its surface. His face beside Sam's stared back at him. He was less startled by the photograph itself—clearly taken when they had first been outside Sir David Woolf's house earlier that week to discuss the attack on his son—than by the image of him and Sam together, unaware they were being observed.

It was, in fact, the first time they had ever been photographed together, and seeing it now filled him with wonder. The _ease_ between them was so openly visible that he brought the piece of charred photograph nearer to his face and narrowed his eyes to analyse it. They were speaking across the hood of the car, but her stance, that of half-expectant pause, and his of thoughtful scrutiny, complemented one another in such utter harmony that he was taken aback.

There in the photograph, pinched between his thumb and forefinger, and here now in the flesh inside this wreck of a house, they stood together. He and Sam. Foyle swallowed hard, a nagging feeling of doubt slipping through him.

"That's us, sir." Sam looked over his shoulder, standing so near to him that he could feel her breath on his cheek.

"Well, yes…"

It was obvious; painfully and wonderfully obvious, just as she had said. _That's us._

Sam leaned in even closer, inspecting the charred remains of a photograph that had caught but a moment between them. It was no illusion; a photograph such as this, snapped with only the thought to capture the scene as evidence, held no lies. Foyle wondered at himself at he looked at it. Was he allowing fancy to interfere with his judgement? Her face, gazing at him in the photograph, was free from concealment. The recognition overwhelmed him. Her thoughts were laid bare for anyone to see. She was looking at him, thinking herself unobserved and unseen, and what was written on her face was something he had never dared to dream.

Her voice brought him back to earth. "Why would he have a photograph of us?"

"I'm not sure."

Sam looked up from the photograph at him and he quirked his lips in a facial shrug. Slipping the photograph piece in his pocket, he turned on his heel and looked around.

"Not much here is there?" she asked, following his eyes around the room.

"No, he wasn't living here."

"Then what was he doing?"

Foyle bit his lip and pivoted again, finding himself looking in the mirror above the hearth. _Yes, what was he doing here?_… In a moment of unprofessional weakness, Foyle banished the investigation from his mind and stood staring at himself in the grubby, spot-flecked mirror, his reflection dappled and uneven. What were they two doing here? Alone and together, with so much between them of which they dare not speak.

Coming closer beside him, perhaps having noticed his stillness, Sam gazed into the mirror and caught his eye. "Sir?"

Foyle blinked.

"Do you think…"

Eyes still caught amongst the dapples of their reflection, Foyle swallowed hard. He knew whatever she was about to say had little to do with Mr Davey and his photographs.

"Do I think... what?" he asked softly, voice barely above a whisper, flitting around them in subdued echoes.

"Is it true what is said, about a photograph capturing time?" Her voice, too, was soft, an unsteady tremor there behind her words.

"Couldn't say…"

"It's just... well, I wish time would stand still now and then… Certain moments… so that they mightn't be mere memories, but that we might go on living them…"

Foyle felt his throat constrict, the sadness in her voice cutting him to the quick. He wanted to reach out for her and take her hand and reassure her; to do whatever he might be allowed to in an attempt to dispel the sadness he felt radiating from her.

Clearing his throat, he turned from the mirror, breaking their gaze. He faced her and asked carefully, eyebrows contracting in a frown of concern tinged with distress, "What is it?"

Sam looked down at her hands, eyes filling at the kindness of his voice.

He bit his lip and looked at her softly from hooded eyes, wondering if he should dare embark on this line of questioning.

"Everything and nothing..."

Shifting his weight onto his other leg, he looked at her carefully. "Can I help? I mean…"

She smiled weakly at him. "You asked me that once before, do you remember? I didn't think you could, but of course, you most certainly did. You probably never realised it."

"Oh?"

"Taking me back to work with you."

"Well, er, least I could do. Done you out of a job, hadn't I?"

"You gave me purpose. As you did all those years ago in Hastings. Do you know, it's the one thing I've always wanted. Something real and tangible—something that I could _do_. Be useful and contribute."

"You are always useful, Sam. I don't, um, say it enough, but… well." He paused, thinking about his words, choosing carefully and saying slowly, "What would I do without you?"

She gave a small huff of laughter. "I often wonder the same about _you_, sir…" She looked up, and their eyes met again. The world around them seemed to vanish; it was just the two of them, speaking honestly as they had always done, which was both freeing and hopeful.

"You mentioned old times today…" Foyle scratched his forehead, pushing up the brim of his hat. "I often think about those days—God-awful for the most part, worrying about Andrew and trying to keep the South Coast from falling into wrack and ruin… but, um, we were a good team. Weren't we?"

"I like to think so." She smiled at him again, finding him endearing in this moment of reflection.

He lifted one corner of his mouth in a half smile.

"I'm not that same person," Sam said, crossing her arms with a small sigh. "I sometimes feel I've lost her along the way…"

"Well, er, you're married now. It always changes things."

"Not always for the best…"

Foyle gave a small grimace. "No. Not always."

Another silence sprang up as they teetered around the edges of the issue. The steady drip from somewhere above beat a rhythmic pulse through the stillness. They were well and truly alone at last, no one from the office listening in, keeping tabs on what they were doing. A feeling of _now or never_ passed through him, and Foyle finally shrugged, resigning himself to the course they were on.

"Look, Sam, if you and Adam are having a tough time, it's none of my business, of course it isn't, but I just want you to know…" he paused, a flush of colour rising from his neck, "I'm here to listen. _If_ you like."

"I know that. You always have been." She gave him a warm look, both grateful and encouraging. "So that is why I ask you to hear me out now."

Foyle bit his lip, nodding his head almost imperceptibly, indicating she should go on.

"It hasn't been easy. I hadn't expected it to be, of course; such a great change… after such an upheaval from war, how could I think it would be? But I suppose I did expect something… more? We get along, Adam and I; there are times when we have enormous fun and can talk for hours. But it… it's…" she paused, trying to express what she meant. "It's so _empty_…"

She looked at him closely from under the brim of her hat, gloved hands clasped tightly against her side. "When I come to work and when I'm with you, it's never empty."

Touching his tie absent-mindedly, Foyle cleared his throat. "Sam, I…"

"No, wait. Please." She stirred, taking a half-step towards him. "Hear me out."

Foyle twitched his lips, wetting them with a nervous flick of the tongue, and took a deep breath, as if steeling himself.

She bowed her head quickly. "I borrowed the car yesterday; you remember?"

He nodded.

"I went to see the doctor again. You see, I… had thought I was expecting. It turns out, I'm not. There had been a mistake… a mix-up or something; I don't know. The poor doctor was so apologetic. And yet, I was _relieved_... I drove home, trying to think of what I would say to Adam. Thinking that it might matter. But then, I realised, it only made things simpler."

"Simpler?" he uttered, unable to stop himself.

"A sign, perhaps." Sam shrugged. "But yes, simpler. You see, I've been desperately unhappy. Trying to be a good wife, and failing in so many ways… wanting to be a good person and finding that, at the end of the day, I chose the wrong man."

Foyle squeezed his eyes shut, willing her not to go on—and yet desperate to know.

"I chose him for the wrong reasons. He was a way out; a way forwards, I suppose, when of course, it was merely a postponement..." Her voice trickled out, looking at him half-expectantly, hoping he would say something.

He opened his eyes, gaze fixed on his shoes, and when he spoke, his voice was so soft that it was nearly a whisper. "And you… you believe you would be happier… with someone else?"

"Yes," she breathed. She came a step closer.

At her step he looked up, face incredulous, eyes full of some burning wonder. How could it be possible? Had he left her to this fate? Rushing off to America, believing that it was best for her to move on and make a life, when all he had done was rend their partnership asunder and created such doubts?

She was beside him now and he closed his eyes again, stifling an inner conflict. How could he justify the rending of another partnership; one which had been put before God, with promises made? He was startled to feel her hand on his cheek, and his eyes flew open.

Before him here in the faltering light of the oncoming evening, in this abandoned ruin of a house, stood his Sam of old, the relief of admission softening her features. Gone was the gaunt look of unhappiness and the thin line of her mouth that had hidden her remembered smile for too long. She was older; a bit wiser, too, but behind the veneer of bravery that she had kept up for so long, was his Sam.

He leaned into her hand. "Sam…" he breathed.

Conscience dictated that he should step away, make sure she went home, and have no more be said about what had just happened. But for once, Foyle realised, with a quick swoop of his insides, all that would _not,_ in fact, be the best thing for her. Through the war, when food was hard to come by, and danger ever-present, she had remained her upbeat, bright self; but within a year of marriage, she had become thin and sallow-looking; as if no one cared for her, or had thought to remedy it. He had asked, when they first met, if things were all right. She'd had difficulties, true enough, with starting a family, but the Sam he had seen before him then was not someone who had merely been ill, rather one who had neglected herself through sheer lack of outside attention. She'd let herself go without recognising it; either through the desperation of her situation, or perhaps even depression. And no one had asked the question, "Are you all right?"

She had cried a bit, and it had hit Foyle with an unpleasant force that something so small, so _simple_, was perhaps all that was necessary. Someone to ask the question was all that was needed. He had felt angry too; how could anyone let her fall by the wayside? What could possibly be more important on this earth than keeping her safe?

And so now, with this subtle anger towards the man who had promised to love and cherish Sam still under the surface of his sensibilities, and with her well-being foremost in his mind, he did not step away and suggest sending her home.

Instead, Foyle raised his hand, taking off his hat in graceful movement as his other slowly gripped her arm. Her own hand, still soft against his cheek, slipped around to the back of his neck, fingers catching at the curls there. Together they moved towards one another, bodies melding in an embrace of recognition and comfort. Foyle felt a part of himself give way, crumbling and cascading to the sound of an inner voice that cried out from her to him. His arms came around her, pulling her tightly to him, feeling the warm and solid feel of her frame against his own. She was whole, and real, and here, needing him perhaps now more than ever.

Yet he, too, drew strength from her; her close proximity erasing so many doubts, casting questions aside. Sam shifted, tucking her face into the warmth of his neck, breathing him in. Her lips brushed across his racing pulse point. "Christopher…"

His stomach dropped as his mind went blank, leaving only the pure desire he now felt. He had not intended any of this; he had set out to listen, to lend an ear and be a friend, but they had now embarked on something irreversible. It was unforgivable on so many levels—but, strangely, it didn't feel unjust. Sam felt somehow right in his arms. As if that were how it always should have been; as if this were not the first time she'd been pressed against him like this; as if they had been designed purely for each other.

Foyle took a shuddering breath, a deep yearning threatening to swallow him. Then his lips were on hers, and he was surprised to taste the salt of tears. Gently, he let his lips trace the tracks her tears had made, covering her cheeks with soft caresses. "Oh, Sam," he murmured, feeling a thousand things at once and not knowing where to begin. "Don't cry."

Sam gave a small smile, then found his lips again, bringing him down hard against the soft flesh there. Clinging to him as if he might melt away. He felt her catch his lower lip with her teeth, claiming him and wanting him. It stirred something within him, and a sudden force took them both unawares.

Foyle let the fingers of his left hand catch hold of her hair, the other hand wrapped tightly around her waist. He kissed her hungrily, and let out a surprised gasp when her tongue sought entry, pushing open his lips with a demanding, titillating force. He thought he might lose himself within such abandon.

Letting his fingers leave her silky hair, now tumbling around her face as stray tresses escaped from her pins, he touched her cheek, tracing the shape of that face which was so dear to him.

"Darling Sam…"

She was crying again, though the corners of her mouth lifted in joy. Foyle leaned in once more to kiss a dimpled corner, capturing her radiance and holding it fast. He understood the tears and was not frightened by them. They let loose the long pent-up hurt she had carried inside, releasing her from the tension that had kept her bound. They were pain, they were joy, happiness and fear. The salt taste was strong against his tongue; they were_ her_. Softly, gently, his lips traced the steady stream that flowed down her cheeks, capturing all the emotion she shed, so that it might never overwhelm her again.

Foyle felt her begin to tremble, and he kissed her cheek, pulling her against his chest, letting her bury her face there. It was as if the first wave of tears had brought it all to the surface; and at last it was safe to let it all go. He would catch her. The trembling began to intensify to proper shaking and she sobbed against his chest, overcome by things that had lain hidden. He doubted she had ever even realised it. How long had she pushed things away? The force of her emotions crashed against him, and he bore it lovingly, holding her fast, biting his lip against tears of his own.

It was truly dark when they broke away from one another, Foyle wiping her face gently with his handkerchief, his eyes pools of blue comfort. It had been a long day. First a dead body and then Sam held at gunpoint by a man who had clearly set them up for the situation that followed: the standoff in the hotel foyer with the Arab contingent. Then he had resigned, as the Foreign Office had given him little room to do otherwise. While he'd found it perfectly easy to do, Foyle had no intention of giving up this investigation until he knew why they had been led into a trap. Now the day had faded and left them here, and he had little interest in what the Service might say. Tomorrow was another day.

Their work was not yet over by a long shot. It had, in many ways, just begun. "Sam," Foyle said gently, slipping his hanky back into his pocket and gripping her hand. "You must speak with Adam. He deserves to know."

She nodded at him, biting her lip and blinking back the mist filling her eyes. "Of course."

Tucking her hand under his arm, Foyle led the way carefully back up the stone steps and out of the abandoned house. "I'll drive," he said quietly and firmly, seeing her into the passenger side, and touching her knee as she settled herself against the leather seat.

Sam put her hand over his. "Thank you, Christopher."

He smiled, the corners of his mouth turned downwards in his usual upside-down fashion. It was not merely gratitude at his offer, but rather what lay behind it. They were in this together, and would not be wrenched from one another. There was much to say and to reconcile, but for now, it could wait.

* * *

How it had quite begun, Sam could never be sure, but the fact remained that between them now was a bond sealed by something deeper than she had ever experienced. She had perhaps forced his hand, and their timing was years late, but she was relieved that they had come to the conclusion together at last. It was as if she were being given the chance to start again; perhaps neither deserved nor justified, but she was grateful all the same.

Foyle drove towards Peckham slowly, stopping at a pie and mash shop along the way. "You haven't eaten all day… you'll need your strength."

Had she gone very pale, for him to stop so suddenly? she wondered. She very nearly said, "I'm not hungry," but knew his suggestion was meant kindly. They ate in silence, saving words for later.

Sam was hungrier than she realised, and as they returned to the car, she felt grateful for Foyle's foresight. There was no telling how long it might take to talk with Adam. Of course, she couldn't be entirely sure he would even be home. This caused a slip of panic to go through her, and she put a hand on Foyle's arm. "What if he isn't home?" She wasn't sure she could endure the waiting on her own, knowing she would have to break such news to Adam.

"Then I'll wait with you," Foyle said quietly, as if reading her mind. "We'll find out soon enough."

They rounded the corner of the silent and empty street, Foyle pulling the car alongside the pavement a few feet before the terraced house Sam and Adam had bought only three months ago. It was dark here, the car full of shadows, and Foyle turned to Sam, looking at her across the bench seat, and reaching out to touch her arm.

"Go in and see if he's there. If not, pop back out. If you don't come out, then I'll leave you to it." He took her hand in his own. "All right?"

"Yes. All right."

To her surprise, Foyle's face half-crumpled, his eyes clouded with sadness. "Oh, Sam, I'm so sorry."

Pulling him to her and kissing his cheek, she murmured, "Oh, don't be sorry. Don't ever be sorry."

"And you're sure?"

"More sure than I've ever been about anything in the world." Her eyes glowed through a dim mist of tears, and she found his lips, crushing them against her own.

She wondered what he thought as he looked at her, inching back from her kiss to look her right in the eye. It seemed his eyes were full of wonder and hope, and something altogether stirring, leaving her full of determination.

Wanting to tell him she loved him, wanting to spill her heart to him in this quiet moment before battle, she instead kissed him once more, very slowly and tenderly. The kiss was thorough and promising, reassuring him as well as herself that their endeavour was neither futile nor mistaken.

And then she was walking away from him, not daring to look back in case she might falter and run to him. She had to do this, so that she might never feel guilty in conscience; she had betrayed Adam, certainly, and her recent actions might be unforgivable, but the time for honesty had come, and she must face it squarely. She owed Adam that, at least. He had never been a bad man; nor unkind or unforgiving. He was, in fact, a very decent fellow. It was just unfortunate that they had not realised they were ill-suited until it was too late. Sam hoped now that the decent qualities she had initially been drawn to in him would prevail.

Inside, the house was quiet. A small pool of light came from the sitting room, and Sam took a deep breath, searching for the courage to be truly honest. She told herself firmly not to cry.

"Adam?"

The sounds of a newspaper being tossed aside, and his heavy steps across the floor, came to her in the small, draughty hallway, and she took another long breath.

"Sam?" He came out of the sitting room, his appearance what she could only describe as dishevelled, as if he had been tugging at his hair in agitation.

"Adam." Their eyes met, and she was surprised by what stared back at her. It was not anger or sadness—nor even worry. It was resignation. His lips had gone very thin, and he gazed at her silently for a moment before ushering her into the sitting room.

She felt like a visitor in her own house, and a small shiver went down her back. Sam had never much liked confrontation, and the possibility of a resounding row with Adam now only seemed exhausting. She hoped he would be inclined to listen rather than to shout.

"Adam. I… need to speak with you…"

He sat down in his chair across from her, hands clasped as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and nodded once.

She was struck by this stoic silence from him, and wondered where it came from. Why hadn't he demanded to know where she had been? Why, in fact, did he not seem at all worried or angry? It was most unsettling.

"I, um…" _God, where do I begin? _ She looked around their small sitting room, eyes taking in their wedding day photo on the mantel; a card beside it, inviting them both to some dinner next week; the clock, which showed nearly ten o'clock, making her start in realisation at how late it really was.

Adam sighed and held up a hand. "Sam, I know what you want to say."

"Oh." She hadn't expected _that_ at all. "Really?"

"I rang the Service," he began levelly, "when you didn't come home. They told me you were with Mr Foyle."

"I see…"

"That you have, in fact, been out with him all day."

Sam felt a little surprised that "The Service" would say such a thing, and why it should be at all unusual, as she was with Mr Foyle _every _day. She shook her head slightly, as if to clear it. "Who did you speak to?"

Adam cleared his throat. "Mr Valentine."

"Oh." Now it was becoming clearer.

"He was… very agreeable. Answered all of my questions."

Sam began to feel a flush creep up her neck, and she wished she'd taken off her coat and hat.

"He has been very satisfied with your, ah, efforts at the Service. I didn't realise why you enjoyed it so much, but I suppose if you are really contributing so well, it must be quite fulfilling for you."

Sam was now completely taken aback, and sat looking at Adam rather dumbly. "Um. Yes."

Adam's eyes narrowed and he looked directly at her. "Sam, I know there is another reason you are so eager to go work each day. It certainly isn't the typing, nor the escapades I'm sure Mr Valentine recruits you for."

Saying nothing, Sam sat back on the sofa, the situation slipping from her grasp more quickly than she had anticipated. What could she say? Where could she even begin to try and explain?

"It's Mr Foyle. Isn't it?"

His gaze was now hard and unforgiving, demanding an answer from her. In an unsentimental tone, he inquired, "You are in love with him, are you not?"

There was nowhere to turn but to the truth. Sam sat up and looked him in the eye, unflinching and yet full of anguish at their situation. "Yes. I'm sorry, Adam, but I am."

Adam then dropped his eyes from hers and stood, putting distance between them. He went to the window, shoving his hands in his pockets and closing his eyes. "Oh, Sam…"

Her heart went out to him. She was truly saddened to know she had brought this misery upon him. Had he been ahead of her, knowing perhaps before she'd known, herself?

"When did you guess?"

He grimaced. "I think I always… well, I just couldn't believe it, when you agreed to marry me. I felt like the luckiest man alive." Adam turned to her, face suddenly surprisingly soft. "I believe I still am, you know. You are a remarkable woman, Sam. And you let me love you for a time, and I shall always be grateful for that."

Sam's tears began again. "I _am_ sorry, Adam. I didn't want to hurt you."

"I know, my darling… and that somehow makes it easier."

"You must think me beastly. I wish it didn't have to be."

He smiled sadly. "Sam, I shan't begrudge you your happiness. I don't like it, and of course I regret so many things, but we deserve to be happy, don't we? After fighting a war and putting up with so much… we deserve to be happy… all of us... "

Within half an hour they had it all sorted; it had been considerably easier than either of them had hoped, and Adam helped her carry the suitcases down the stairs.

"I'm sorry, too, Sam," he said, voice no longer objective, but filled with deep remorse.

Kissing his cheek in farewell, Sam gathered her few things, having arranged to come back later in the week for the final bits and pieces. "We'll speak soon. Get everything done quietly and without fuss. Yes?"

"Yes."

"I'll be at one of the Service's flats. I'll ring you with the number."

"Not at…" He swallowed hard, leaving his words unspoken.

"No." It was enough, and he nodded, relieved of that notion at the very least.

"Look after yourself."

"You, too."

The dark night covered her steps as she left the small house, leaving behind one life in steadfast pursuit of another. Sam did not look back.

Waiting where she had left him, in the shadows that were now even deeper than before, Foyle stepped quickly from the car, reaching for her. He took a bag, slipping one hand strongly around her waist, supporting and comforting. "All right?"

Sam nodded and helped him put the things away in the boot.

They stood by the back of the car for a moment, their breath rising up in a mist between them. Sam looked at him, catching at his hand. It was done, and she would be, at last, beside him, never to wonder if this drive would be their last. _Now I can tell him,_ she thought, eyes filling with the relief of it.

"I love you, Christopher Foyle. I love you so very much."

Stepping in closer, he pulled her to him slowly, removing his hat and leaning in to kiss her. It was full of promise and restrained passion, and Sam fell into it without qualm or question. Here was her beginning; her middle; her end: _Christopher Foyle_.

_Fin. _


End file.
